So I've been taught since the 90s to clear my plate
So now dessert feels like work
Before these non-deterministic magic boxes, we were
Just mechanical turks with calculators
Monkeys who knew how it all worked
Who wrote frameworks weaving
Machines we could control
There’s fog for 20 metres from here From here to screen To midwinter For the chill to draw out this splinter If I could, I would. See? I’m restless But in a wrestle Can’t follow the weather Can’t stay in the metre
Choose your fighter carefully Or you’ll be a well-honed knife That’s in search of fear It was a path You laid out For yourself Well, I’m too old to lose a breast As I fight for respect In the name of a straighter shot
